


Revenge is a Dish...

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Blowjobs in the Snow~, Captive Nicholai/Angry Carlos, Depression, Domestic Discipline, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluffy Valentine's Day Chapter Added :), Hate to Love, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, M/M, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Post RE3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Warfare, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28163409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Carlos Oliveira settles down in Philadelphia after the Raccoon City incident, enjoying his new, quiet life.That is... until he discovers Nicholai Zinoviev is alive, and old ghosts begin to haunt him.[Complete, but a fluffy Valentine's Day chapter was added because what the hell]
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Carlos Oliveira
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	1. The Goulash Recipe

Carlos Oliveira lived in a two bedroom apartment on West South Bend Avenue in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

He'd lived there since the _incident_. The one he'd never talked about since. 

It was cheap, but clean and in a relatively empty building. He was the only occupant on his floor, and enjoyed that bit of fleeting privacy as he attempted to live a quiet life. Jill had gotten him a job at a new anti-B.O.W monitoring startup, one that allowed him to mindlessly input data like a clerk at a life insurance agency. He didn't want anything more, despite repeated offers. He never wanted to touch a gun again. 

One year into his quiet life, and he'd gotten comfortable and was even feeling _happy_.

He had friends -- ones who invited him to bars and cafes to just talk about normal nothings. 

He had prescriptions -- ones that had finally started to work, letting him sleep through the night and wake up feeling refreshed. 

He had a new dutch oven -- one he'd been gifted at his birthday party by a coworker. It was blue. 

And that's when his trouble started.

With that _fucking_ dutch oven.

He'd been looking up recipes he could make in his fancy new dish, and came across a highly-rated one for a Hungarian stew. He'd never tried such a thing, and was curious. But the ingredients were very specific, and sent him on a wild goose chase around various Philadelphia ethnic markets in search of what he needed.

He ended up on Bustleton avenue, at a sizable Eastern European deli named Petrovsky. He'd called them in advance to make sure they had the double smoked finely ground paprika the recipe called for, and they said they'd set off a tin at the front for him. But when he arrived, thirty minutes later, he found the woman who had told him she would set aside a tin had gone on break, and never actually reserved the spice. 

Carlos had found it humorous at first, laughing it off when the cashier apologetically pointed him in the direction of the spice aisle.

It's no matter, he'd thought, at least they had it in stock.

He'd enjoyed wandering the aisles of the quaint market, curiously peering at the imported foods lining their shelves. He grabbed a few other things along the way -- some snacks to try. And just as he rounded a corner to follow the delectable scent of something being smoked behind the deli counter -- he saw him.

 ** _Him_**.

Carlos didn't believe his eyes at first, standing gape-mouthed with an arm full of Bulgarian potato chips that threatened to drop to the floor if he continued to shake. But if the unique, naturally silver hair hadn't been enough to force him to accept that it was indeed Nicholai Zinoviev, the moment of impossible silence that had come over the deli -- enough to let him hear the distinct accent fluttering past his lips -- was a seal that verified it.

He'd tossed the collected snacks in a nearby bin, clamouring from the store as the teller asked him if he'd found the paprika. 

He dove into his car and stumbled through stabbing his key into the keyhole, foot poised to the gas petal with every intention of driving as far as as fast as he possibly could. 

And then he stopped.

Heart in his throat, he stopped.

A blizzard of anxieties, fear, humiliation, and trauma gusted through his mind. He asked himself how the older man was alive, how he'd escaped, how it could be possibly they'd ended up in the same city, at the same store, at the same time. 

As though on a loudspeaker, the delightful **_ding-dong_** of Petrovsky's door bell sprang to life and blasted into his ear from across the parking lot. Nicholai was exiting the store, a bag of groceries in hand, walking down the plaza's sidewalk casually. 

Carlos craned his neck to watch him. Other than the barely-perceptible, choppy limp in his walk that was obviously from the gunshot wound Jill had landed, the Russian seemed completely... normal. He was wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt, blending in seamlessly with other human beings as though he weren't a hellbound demon who had ended the lives of so many on this planet for no reason more than greed and self-interest. 

At first, Carlos considered scrambling to find his phone and calling Jill.

Surely, she needed to know. 

But just as he sorted through his satchel in search of the small, company-issued flip-phone, he realised he was losing Nicholai in the distance. Urgency built up, and he chose to abandon his search in favour of following the man. Maybe, he thought, he could find his address, making it easier for Jill and others to crack down.

He slowly drove through the parking lot, inching along and trying desperately not to lose sight of the head of glimmering silver hair.

Nicholai didn't get into a car at any point, continuing his walk until he rounded a corner at the end of the plaza onto what looked like a short residential street lined with duplexes and short, brick apartment buildings. 

It was a short pursuit, with Nicholai turning once again at the end of the road -- from Presidents Street to Wistaria, before slipping into what appeared to be a parking lot for one of the apartment buildings. When Carlos drove past it, he just barely caught the older man entering through a back door.

Carlos turned his car around and parked on the street, across from the building's lot. 

And he sat.

And sat.

And sat.

Day turned to evening, and evening to dusk. The streetlamp above his car flickered to life.

He stared at the door Nicholai had walked through as though in a trance, unblinking eyes going dry. A part of him was asking why he wasn't doing anything. Why he wasn't calling Jill. Why he was simply sitting there, _staring_.

By the time he broke his trance, the digital clock on his dashboard read 1:45 a.m.

Most of the lights in the building were off, and there hadn't been a single car that had driven down the street in an hour.

He slowly, quietly exited his car, walking towards the door as though it had a magnetic pull. He was surprised to find it was open, allowing him access to a small entry area that had mailboxes and doorbells that called up to the six units in the building. But the second door he faced inside was locked.

His eyes trailed the mailboxes, looking for Nicholai's name but finding nothing familiar. One, however, stood out prominently amongst the simple American and Spanish names. 

_**Sergeyevich 417** _

Carlos scoffed to himself, hissing a breath through his teeth as he glared at the name. As though it were the very last thing he needed to abolish all remaining doubt he may have had -- hope he may have had -- that he were simply going insane and his medications had stopped working.

No. No, it wasn't PTSD or stress about finding the _fucking_ paprika.

Nicholai was alive. He really, really was. And he was living under a fake name, probably off of the money he made from slaughtering his own team in Raccoon City. For a moment, Carlos thought he might even be able to smell his cologne lingering in that little entryway.

Hatred began to well up inside of Carlos rapidly. A burning, primal hatred, one he couldn't recall feeling ever in his life. 

Leaving Nicholai on that platform had been easy. He'd turned his back on the older man with a perverse level of satisfaction, the thoughts of his team freshly mewed into his mind. While he had run over the other man in sessions with his therapist, he'd mostly felt resolved.

He'd met an awful death. Cosmic justice had been served.

Except he hadn't. It hadn't been.

And it was unfair. _Fuck_ , it was unfair.

Carlos wandered back to his car slowly, the coolness of the early morning cutting into his skin. He settled in his seat, eyes locked on the satchel he'd tossed to the passenger's side, and the cellphone that had slid out of it. 

He knew if he called Jill, the police would be here within minutes. Nicholai would be taken away and locked up for life. Carlos knew he'd be questioned -- interrogated maybe. But he also knew this was America, and even the special cops had rules and ethics -- ones that would have probably prevented them from smashing the Russian bastard's face into a concrete wall repeatedly. 

Nicholai would be charged without a doubt, perhaps even given life -- but then he would be sent to a prison where he likely had contacts who could either get him out or make his life comfortable. He wouldn't have to suffer a day without food, water, or even television. Hell, prison would probably be an easy gig for him.

Carlos took a deep breath.

And then he decided he was going to kidnap Nicholai Zinoviev.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually a draft intended to be inserted into the "UBCS Kink Shorts" series, but I ended up extending it into its own story! 
> 
> This is going to get very dark and very heavy so please take the tags as foreshadowing.
> 
> ALSO TRIVIA: Petrovsky market is a real market in Philadelphia, as are the streets. My long time pen pal who is from this area told me all about the Russian delis in her city lol


	2. 544 West South Bend Avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS is where some of the tags begin to apply, amplifying heavily into the next chapter. Please heed them.

It's relatively easy to abduct an unsuspecting target. 

So long as they're unaware they've been watched and had their habits and routines monitored and analysed, they are effectively defenceless against a sudden ambush. 

Carlos had taken the week off from work in anticipation of the time he'd need to spend watching the older man and formulating a plan. He'd rent a new car every day, one that let him park on the street that ran outside Nicholai's building without arousing suspicion. He'd watch the man as he left and returned to his apartment, trying to pin him to a pattern. The Russian never seemed to leave after dark, and the street was far too busy to try and take him in broad daylight.

It was Friday night before Carlos' luck turned around. And at around 8:30 p.m, Nicholai left his building for the second time that day, slipping into a taxi that had been waiting for him on the curb. Carlos waited for another car to pass between them before he pursued, keeping his distance from the cab but a keen eye on it. 

It eventually stopped outside of a bar -- one brightly lit by red, neon lights. Carlos parked nearby, watching Nicholai disappear into the shady establishment.

"Drink up, Nicky boy." He murmured to himself, snatching his coffee from the cupholder of his rental. It had long gone cold but it was something to occupy him.

Minutes turned to hours, and hours to more. 

It was nearly midnight by the time Carlos caught the older man leaving. 

A predatory smile pulled at his lips as he saw that Nicholai was drunk off of his ass. There was a distinct shake in his legs, one that accompanied his hand skimming along the side of the building as he walked.

 _Walked_. 

Carlos was smiling like an idiot in his car, excitedly fiddling through turning the car on.

"Gracias a Dios!" He laughed, feeling utterly blessed in that moment, his eyes following Nicholai as the older man stumbled across a crosswalk.

Nicholai was about to become yet another _casualty_ of the ruthless Philadelphia streets. Another name in the paper. The wrong name, at that.

A part of Carlos wondered if he'd even be missed by anyone enough to be reported. Maybe his landlord would bust down his door when the rent was due, and that's how it would happen. Carlos doubted the man had any friends -- he was a toxic motherfucker. During their U.B.C.S days, he actively snapped at everyone and anyone who tried to get closer to him. Carlos remembered hearing the murmurs, the aggravation, the complaints. Hell, even in Raccoon City he recalled Tyrell sparking up the subway car with laugher as he joked about how stoic and _weird_ the older man had been during their rotation walking the streets. Mikhail had offered a few digs at the Sargeant of his own. It had been a lighthearted moment in hell.

Tyrell. Mikhail.

Both of them were dead.

Carlos' smile contorted into a grimace as he thought about it, a bit of additional motivation sparking into him as he continued to trail Nicholai, who had blissfully ended up on a stretch where most of the businesses were closed. 

Now was his chance.

Carlos drove up past Nicholai, slowing to the curb a few metres ahead in front of a shuttered convenience store. He waited until Nicholai just barely crossed the threshold of his back lights before opening the door and slipping from the car. His heart was beating in his throat as he circled the vehicle to confront the Russian, hoping he'd remembered to unlock the backdoor.

In his drunkenness, Nicholai didn't immediately recognise him. Instead, regarding him as a random obstacle that had appeared and he now had to manoeuvre around. But as he stepped to the side, so did Carlos. A passing car's headlights illuminated the younger man's face, and it was only then that the hazy, jade eyes blinked with realisation.

"Remember me, fucker?" Carlos hissed, voice jagged and shaky. 

Nicholai's face was set, unchanging. There was a slight flush of pink dancing across his pale cheekbones and straight nose, lips flushed and swollen from the cold. Carlos knew he was calculating a move, but his thoughts and body were muted by the liquor. A tingle quivered at his jaw, a huff of breath quickly shooting from his nose.

"What... do you want... from me, Carlos?" His voice was quiet, raspy. It was barely audible above the distant traffic and blaring of a passing police siren.

Carlos scoffed a laugh, fists balling at his sides. _That voice_ was fucking with his head. Nicholai Zinoviev had no right sounding pensive -- not after everything he'd done.

"I want you to suffer." The words were pulled from his lungs involuntarily, and -- almost immediately after they blathered past his lips -- were met with a bellowing cackle.

Carlos could smell the vodka on the other man's breath as he tossed his head back, laugh increasing in volume and intensity. Nicholai seemed genuinely entertained by what he had said.

And it _infuriated_ him. 

He quickly cast a glance over his shoulder, confirming the street was empty for a moment, before reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Nicholai's hair, rapidly slamming the older man's head on the edge of his car. Nicholai's body went limp, buckling to his knees as the well-placed strike of metal against his temple rendered him unconscious. 

Carlos gasped slightly. Not out of shock or fear, but rather from the liberating ecstasy the feeling of power gave him.

It was done.

Both of their fates had been sealed in an instant. 

God had smiled on him multiple times that night. In a perverse, delusional way, Carlos felt it was a sign he had been righteous in the decisions he'd made.

First, Nicholai's drunkenness. Then, the emptiness of the street he decided to naively wander down. Then still, the emptiness of his building.

Not a soul had seen him haul Nicholai's unconscious body through the parking lot and up the stairs. Fitting, Carlos thought, as not a soul would ever see Nicholai again. No soul but his -- and his was as black as it ever could be for that man.

By the time he dragged Nicholai into his empty second bedroom -- never used because he never needed it -- the older man was beginning to stir impotently. Carlos rushed to his own room, stumbling through ripping apart his closet in search for his U.B.C.S utility belt -- one he'd hidden away carefully at the very back and hadn't thought about in ages.

But there were zip-ties still wound around the vest, ones that were finally coming in handy after a year of sitting idle.

Carlos had no consideration for Nicholai's comfort as he tugged the plastic line through the lock as tightly as he could, binding his wrists and ankles together. At the last minute, he decided to use two sets -- just incase.

And then he stared down at his handiwork, licking his lips in delight, imagining how wonderful it would be when the bastard finally came to his senses, down from his vodka-muted high, and realised he was _fucked_.

"You have a good sleep, Nicky." Carlos chuckled, "I'll see you in the morning, yea?"

~

Carlos had never slept so well.

He hadn't even taken his medication, he realised in the morning, and yet he slept like a tuckered out toddler, draped over the couch, not even having removed his clothes.

There was a pep in his step as jumped from the sectional and skipped towards the bedroom where he'd set Nicholai. And the devilish grin on his face only grew as he threw open the door and savoured the delicious, _delicious_ expression of confused terror on the Russian's face. 

The older man had clearly sobered up at some point in the night, and once he did he had wormed his way to sit in a far corner of the room, hiding behind propped-up knees. His eyes widened when Carlos came into the room, Adams apple bobbing and jaw trembling as he clenched his teeth -- so clearly dancing between fear and fury. There was a rather large, rather angry looking black and red bruise on his temple where he had been slammed against the car during his abduction.

"Good morning, _Sargeant Zinoviev_!" Carlos jeered, striding up to loom above Nicholai cruelly, "Did you sleep okay?"

"Fuck you."

Carlos didn't even give a moment's thought to the kick that followed, planting his sneaker against Nicholai's head with such swiftness that he was almost shocked by his own actions. The older man's skull knocked against the wall loudly, a yelping gasp following. His teeth clenched in a grimace of pain and he buried his head into his knees with a whimper.

"Oh, I forgot... You probably have a hangover." Carlos pouted, waiting a moment before delivering another, swift, hard kick to the side of Nicholai's head.

A bit of blood trickled from the older man's nose this time, his eyes glazing slightly as they widened in a shock of pain. Whimpers and hisses of agony began to breath from his gaping lips. Carlos could tell his headache was probably drumming like a tank line running through his skull.

"I should probably tell you where you are..." Carlos sighed loudly, "You're at my place. This building is basically empty because the landlord charges too much for what the apartments are and no one wants to rent them. You can scream if you want, no one will hear you."

Nicholai didn't look up at him as he continued.

"And I am going to make you scream, Nicholai." The younger man beamed with a nod, "So, so much. And you'll deserve every fucking second of it."

"Are you done your _stupid_ monologue yet?"

Carlos put his entire thigh muscle into the kick he met the defiant response with. Perhaps it had been a bit too hard, a bit of drywall flaking from the wall Nicholai's head came into contact with before the man fell to his side, gasping and squirming in agony. 

"Weird how you still think you're in charge, Nick."

He was satisfied when Nicholai couldn't respond, able to do nothing but mewl and whine loudly through his pain. 

"You know why I didn't just call the cops?" Carlos scoffed,"Because life in jail would have been too good for you."

The younger man turned on his heels and strode out of the room, deciding he wanted a shower and coffee before beginning with his captive.

"You're here. You're under my jurisdiction. And you're not leaving -- ever."

He cast a glance over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him, "Get used to it. Fast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, the next chapter is going to be awful so please, again, consider the tags.


	3. Red-Stained Pile

It was almost mundane. A chore. No different than washing the dishes or microwaving leftover pizza.

After work, Carlos would drive home. Sometimes he'd stop to get groceries, wading through the aisles and plucking bananas from the shelf casually. He blended in perfectly with everyone else -- another face in a crowd, going about his quiet life. 

Only when he arrived back to his apartment did that picture of quietness begin to distort. He now needed six different keys to open his door, having installed five additional locks on both sides of the thin wood. Once inside, he had to use the keys again to lock the door from the inside. He'd similarly secured his windows, rigging each with a security alarm that was wired to the police line. Most of his neighbours thought he was simply being overcautious. But then again, it was Philadelphia.

After setting away his groceries and flicking on the television, he'd finally address the room. _The_ room. It still only had its one door lock, a relatively simple one, but Carlos wasn't concerned.

When he opened the door, the crack of light it pulled it got wider and wider. It was a dark void without the light turned on, Carlos having painted over the small window after finding even the thickest blackout curtains inadequate.

Carlos switched the overhead light on, scoffing loudly when he saw Nicholai hadn't moved from where he'd left him earlier that day -- still laying on the floor, on his side, a large spot of bright red-stained pile beneath his head.

"Didn't want to shuffle back into your corner?" Carlos jeered, slowly closing the distance between them, "Couldn't, maybe?"

Some parts of the carpet crunched when he stepped on them -- layers of caked blood drying to the short, beige pile. Inch to inch, it was stained every colour of red, brown, black, and even yellow. Anyone else would have likely recoiled in horror at the scent alone, the acrid stench of blood and piss having long permeated the walls of the small room, but it was something Carlos had already gotten used to.

"You didn't even eat your banana." He groaned in annoyance, noticing the unpeeled mass of fruit he'd tossed into the room the previous night was blackening and rotting near Nicholai's leg. "Well, I'm not going to give you a new one until you eat this one. It's a waste."

He bent to snatch the fruit from the floor, but it was so moist and soft it took him a few tries to scoop as much of it into his palm as he could. 

With the toe of his boot, he prodded at Nicholai's chest until the older man rolled onto his back, hissing in pain as his still-bound, numb hands were forced to bear the weight of his body. 

Even through blackened, swollen eyes Carlos could see defiant glimmers of jade peeking through and staring up at him in a silent accusation. 

He hadn't been able to beat that look out of Nicholai's eyes. He hadn't been able to kick it, or punch it, slap it out. 

He hadn't even been able to rape it out, excited when the haphazard attempt at an assault -- done through a hole he cut in Nicholai's pants with the end of a broomstick -- managed to prompt a genuine, guttural sob from the soldier.

But even once it was done, and the sobbing and hyperventilating steadily subsided, the look remained.

It made him _furious_.

Carlos knelt down and shoved the soured fruit into Nicholai's face. He smeared it across the bruised cheeks and split lips, laughing as the older man began to choke on the few morsels that slipped into his mouth.

"You have **_no right_** to look at me like that!" Carlos sneered, wiping his hand in Nicholai's hair, " _ **None**_!"

He sat back on his haunches, nose crinkled in disgust, watching with a tepid satisfaction as Nicholai tried to spit up the fruit that had become lodged in his throat.

"Why.. d-do'nt y-you c-ut out my e-eyes, then?" Nicholai rasped and wheezed, sputtering through the first words he'd spoken in days, "Ju-st c-t the-m out a-nd I'll ne-never look a-at you a-again."

Carlos snorted, "Yeah? You'd fucking deserve it, after all you've done."

A twisted smile knotted across Nicholai's blood-caked lips, "W-wha-at did I d-do?"

"Are you fucking serious?" 

Nicholai attempted a curt nod, a gurgle bubbling from his lips as he did.

"What did you do?" Carlos scoffed in complete disbelief, almost too stunned by the question to be angry, "You killed innocent peopl--"

"Who was inn-innocent?" Nicholai squirmed as he attempted to roll back onto his side, purple hands screaming for him to relieve the pressure that was on them. Some of the mashed banana that had been wiped onto his hair _plopped_ to the ground as he did, "W-who I-I ki-kill... w-was inno-cent."

"Wersbowski, Mishima, Collins -- You sicced zombies on your whole fucking platoon!" 

"Wers-Wersbowski was a seri-al r-rapist. Mishima killed his w-w-ife and d-aughters. Collins -- Collins sold laced drugs to k-kids, d-didn't he?" Nicholai finally managed to roll onto a shoulder, gasping in exhaustion at the small amount of physical exertion.

"Mikhail!" Carlos spat, "Jill told me what you fucking did to Mikhail!"

Nicholai somehow managed to roll his eyes below the swollen lids, "Mikhail. Mikhail Victoravich Semenov -- he w-was go-going to go a-anyway. H-he died exactly how a s-soldier like h-him wanted to die. W-with glory." Nicholai swallowed hard, trying to clear his throat of the blood-laced saliva that had accumulated there, "D-do you t-think he would have b-been happier to p-pass _peacefully_ in some sterile American hospital? It would have broken his soul."

Carlos licked his lips, nostrils flared in outrage. But before he could even speak, Nicholai continued.

"So who?" The Russian wheezed through a cough, "W-who is this m-mystical innocent I killed? Hmm? Bard? T-the man who condemned the c-city to destruction? The man who tried t-to use his r-research on mutating h-humans to bargain for his own life? I-It's true, I d-didn't have to kill him, but I was upset."

"You tried to kill Jill."

"No I didn't!" Nicholai almost laughed, but the sound of bubbling drool was anything but, "D-do you know how man-many chances I had? H-how many times we were alone in the city? Even o-on the heli-pad. I-it takes one second t-to pull a trigger." He spat up some of the saliva that was irritating him, letting it glob on the floor below his head, "S-she **_is_** innocent. M-misguided but innocent. S-same reason I didn't s-shoot y-you there."

"You would have left us there to die!" Carlos scoffed, "Same shit."

"How d-do you think I got out? Magic?" Nicholai's tongue passed over his broken lower lip, "There w-were other helicopters, idiot."

The backhand Carlos delivered to Nicholai's face was totally involuntary, his knuckles making contact with the older man's cheek rapidly the moment the insult had left his lips. For a moment, the sensation of how soft and gel-like the flesh had been made Carlos uncomfortable.

"Don't... call me an idiot!" He barked, wiping his hand of blood Nicholai's shirt, "Okay? Don't!"

"F-fine. Fine. S-sorry."

Carlos rubbed his lips together, allowing a moment of silence to pass between them. It felt heavy.

"That's how you feel, huh? Everything you did was _fine_ because you had a reason?"

" _Nyet_. Not fine." Nicholai grunted, "But no worse t-than what they all d-did. W-why am I the only o-one not allowed to h-have a reason? Hmm? Tell me."

More silence. That look Carlos hated in Nicholai's eyes was growing stronger.

"B-because I was not nice to you?" He gargled through another attempt at a chuckle, "That's it? B-because they were _nice_ to you and I wa-wasn't?"

"That's not true..."

" _Da_! It is!" Nicholai's face scraped against the floor as he nodded, "Y-you will call a rapist an _innocent_ because he w-was nice! A murderer! Dr-drug dealers and genocidal m-maniacs! Y-you will forgive them of their sins b-because the-they were friendly to you."

"They were trying to make their lives b--"

 _ **"SO WAS I!!**_ " The bark shredded at Nicholai's throat, bloody spittle spraying across the carpet. It sounded raspy and pained, but the volume surprised Carlos, whose eyebrows cocked upwards in response, "So was I. W-why am I the only one who isn't allowed to be forgiven? B-because I did not cover my wickedness with a s-smile? I did n-not kiss your ass? I d-did not pretend I was _**so much better** _than some bitter **_asshole_** named Nicholai Zinoviev!?"

Carlos stood up abruptly, considering briefly kicking the older man but deciding he wanted nothing more than to get out of that room.

Some parts of the carpet crunched when he stepped on them -- layers of dried blood caked to the short, beige pile.

The smell of the room finally caught up to his nose as he strode out, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop. Carlos, you are not such a good guy, are you?
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this so far! Comments are appreciated. This is definitely going to be less of a smut story and more of a ride on the angst train.


	4. Dirty Water

It was two days before he decided to go to the room again.

On his way home from work on the second day, Carlos stopped at the small hardware store where he'd bought the locks and alarms. He asked for a few metres of brute chain, and a few thick, heavy pad locks. The man at the front tried to joke with him. 

_"Jeez buddy, what the heck are you trying to lock up? A bear!"_

He didn't find it funny, paying for his purchase with cash and internally condemning himself for returning to the same spot twice. 

He hadn't been thinking clearly recently. He'd kept forgetting to take his medication.

When he got home, he carefully locked all the doors and checked all the windows, drawing the blinds at every one. He gathered a few supplies from around the apartment -- scissors and a bottle of water, which he shoved into his hoodie pocket, sponges, and a bucket he filled with hot water, laundry detergent, and bleach -- before entering the room. 

Nicholai had shuffled back into his corner at some point, head resting on the wall, unmoving when Carlos entered. The bruises and swelling in his face had apexed over the last two days of neglect, his cheeks and eyelids shiny and blackened.

Carlos set the bucket down by the door, closing the distance between them and crouching to assess the older man. 

The small slits Carlos could see of the jade eyes remained trained on some distant point, not flicking over towards him even when he began to try and manipulate the other man's body, pulling him by the shoulder to tilt forward. His hands were as purple and swollen as the rest of him, and didn't respond when Carlos pinched them a few times -- checking to ensure they couldn't be used against him in a surprise attack, if the Sargeant happened to have it in him. 

Nicholai mewed a whimper when he cut the double zip-ties, arms dropping to the floor at his sides limply. Carlos took each wrist and set it up on the man's lap before similarly freeing his ankles. He then offered him the water, holding it in front of his line of vision and uncapping it.

He couldn't remember if he'd given Nicholai anything to drink since he'd taken him, nearly a week and a half ago. He'd thrown cold water on his face, and tossed him the occasional fruit, but had never given it much thought beyond that.

Nicholai eagerly accepted the fluid when Carlos set the bottle's opening to his lips, springing to life and gulping desperately like a suckling calf. His lips were too fattened and split to close, and some of the water dribbled down his chin.

When he finished, Carlos tossed the bottle to the side, standing quickly.

"You're going to clean this floor you made a mess of." He said sternly, pointing to the bucket, "Don't drink that water there's bleach in it. I'll give you more later."

Nicholai peered up at him silently.

"If you do a good job, I'll let you bathe. Do you understand?"

"Mhm..."

Carlos took a perverse joy in watching Nicholai crawl to the bucket and struggle impotently to grip the sponge. He smirked when the older man's numb hands refused to cooperate with his attempts to scrub it across the stained carpet. After a few minutes of looming and watching, he left the room, leaving the door open so he could hear the methodic scrubs that began to emerge in a pattern as Nicholai's hands regained some circulation. 

He took a call from his cousin, did some catch-up work on his computer, and browsed the yellow pages, wondering if he should order dinner in or make it. He wasn't a particularly good cook.

The **_scrub scrub scrub_** continued to plod sounds through the apartment, but an hour later, the sound of Nicholai's tiny, ragged voice accompanied them.

"C-C-arlos..."

It was a quiet squeak, but still audible. Carlos set his computer to the side, getting up from the couch and heading towards the room. He was surprised at the progress Nicholai had made, many of the larger stains having been scrubbed from a dark brown to a lighter pink, though Carlos was sure they'd never fully be soaked out. It also smelled better -- bleach and soap battling the acrid stench of blood, sweat, and piss.

Nicholai was kneeling, Adams apple bobbing as he tried to form words.

"The--" He cleared his throat, "--water is t-too dirty."

Carlos nodded, taking the bucket to the bathroom to dump it out and refresh the contents. The liquid inside was almost black, and stunk like nothing else he'd ever smelled. He had to run the tap immediately after in an attempt to flush away the scent. 

For a moment, he let the stream run into the bucket, intending to refill it and give it back to Nicholai. But a last-second decision had him dump it all back out and set the pail aside, leaving the taps on as he returned to the bedroom and collected the older man. 

He was shaky, and almost fell several times while Carlos pulled him to his feet and steadily walked him to the bathroom.

"You can finish the rest of it tomorrow." He grumbled, "You stink. Get undressed."

Nicholai had to sit on the edge of the tub as he fumbled through undoing his cut pants and slipping out of his boxers. Carlos had to help him unlace his boots, the Russian nearly toppling over when he bent to grab at them. The clothes were immediately discarded into the garbage bin, and Carlos tied the plastic edges of the trash bag to contain their smell.

After helping Nicholai stand in the tub, he sat on the closed toilet seat and watched him shower under cold water. The older man's hands first dipped to wash away the dried blood between his thighs, water running red as it snaked around his pale, bruised legs. He then tried to pull the chunks of banana that had been rotting away in his hair, thanking Carlos softly when the younger man passed him some soap to use.

His face took the longest to clean. It was clearly painful to touch, but he used a finger and scrubbed in circles, turning his head up into the stream with a hiss of discomfort. He opened his mouth, drinking some and letting it wash through his dry mouth. It was a comfort.

By the end of the shower, Nicholai certainly still looked a mess -- but slightly less of one. Carlos helped him get out of the tub and sit back down on the edge, giving him a dark towel to use to dry himself off. The younger man disappeared for a minute, returning to then bathroom with a heavy canvas bag whose contents _clinked_ and _clacked_ with a familiar sound.

He didn't struggle or resist when Carlos looped the heavy, thick chain around his neck, binding two of the links together with a weighty lock to form a makeshift collar. He watched Carlos unravel the chain as he walked out of the room again, clearly determining a length for the lead.

Some loud clamouring later, and Carlos began to speak.

"I'm going to air that room out, so you're going to stay in the kitchen." His stern voice called out, "I already got rid of the knives and rat poison so don't think about it."

"I-I'm no-not."

Carlos led him into the kitchen, sitting him in a corner by the countertop where a bottle of water was already waiting for him. He could see his chain was bound to the bottom of the fridge with another heavy lock. Immediately, he slurped down the water desperately, finishing the bottle in a few deep sips.

"You ask for permission to do anything -- bathroom, water, whatever -- do you understand?" Carlos said, wagging his finger downwards as he towered over the kneeling man, "You do not move unless I say so, do you understand?"

"Yes."

He nodded sternly, "Good. You're going to make yourself useful while I figure out what to do with you. Do you know how to cook?"

"A little."


	5. Blue Dutch Oven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [warnings: rape, fingering, domestic violence, hair-pulling, blood, PTSD]

There was something relaxing about having Nicholai around. 

Carlos hated to admit it. Really, _really_ hated it -- and he never would. Not even to himself. 

But arriving at home to the smell of food was a bit of creature comfort he hadn't enjoyed since he lived with his mother and sister in Venezuela. 

Nicholai was a good cook, though what he was able to make was limited largely due to the fact Carlos refused to give him knives, instead only buying minced meats and pre-chopped vegetables and herbs. It was often not what he wanted, and he complained about having to adjust recipes to account for it. 

He had learned his schedule well, and at 5:45 p.m he would have dinner on the table. While Carlos ate, he'd prepare his lunch for the next day, package it, and put it in the fridge. His chain would clamour on the floor as he moved across the small kitchen, and while it had originally annoyed the younger man, Carlos had gotten used to it. The old fatigue pants he'd given Nicholai to wear somewhat softened the clinking against his body.

After a week in the kitchen, Carlos had started letting him make a portion for himself, too. A reward for being cooperative. In deference, he was to eat after Carlos had finished.

After two, Carlos had lengthened his lead slightly, letting him move around most of the apartment freely. While he still could not reach the door -- not that it would matter -- he could complete the majority of the chores in the house on his own. Vacuuming, washing clothes, fixing Carlos' bed, and steadily continuing to work through the stains on the carpet in the second bedroom.

His face had mostly healed, Carlos had noted, with most of the bruises that had been on his body fading to a light, sickly yellow that indicated they'd be gone soon. Carlos didn't have the overwhelming, ravenous desire to beat him anymore, though an open-palmed slap or denial of food was a more common punishment for the occasional snarky comment. 

Tonight, Carlos sat on the couch and watched across the apartment as Nicholai spooned out his dinner. Some sort of Russian rice dish. He'd made it in the blue dutch oven. Unbeknownst to him, it was the one that had started all of his trouble.

"It's ready." 

Carlos sat at the kitchen island, almost excited for how good the food looked. As he contently spooned a first bite into his mouth, his hand reached across the countertop to grab his satchel, discarded there when he'd gotten home. Nicholai was washing the dishes, and didn't hear the clink of glass bottles being set atop the island.

"Hey." Carlos spoke, mouth half full.

Nicholai turned to the address, casting a glance over his shoulder. Immediately, a half-scoff-half-laugh breathed past his lips as he saw the pint of vodka standing next to the wine bottle.

"For being good." Carlos said simply, turning back to his food for another bite. He'd stopped at the liquor store to buy himself wine -- the vodka had been a last-second decision, the display of imported bottles staring at him as he stood in line with his own choice. 

Nicholai finished scrubbing the pot before he turned to assess the bottle intently, trying to suppress a small smile. 

"And when am I allowed to drink this?" He asked, gently plucking a wineglass from the island cabinet and pouring Carlos a healthy glass of his beverage.

"Now, if you want. Don't care." Carlos murmured, shovelling more of the delicious _plov_ into his mouth. 

"Really?" Nicholai seemed disbelieving, waiting for Carlos to nod before picking the bottle up, unscrewing the cap, and taking a long, unceremonious swig. So long and so unceremonious that Carlos' eyebrows cocked up slightly watching. 

"I guess we're drinking tonight." The younger man said, lifting his own glass and taking down half the contents.

Nicholai sighed contently, swallowing the caustic liquid and appreciating the familiar burn it left in his throat. 

"This isn't bad -- but next time you want to _reward_ me for being a _good boy_ get the stuff from Petrovsky. Surely you saw the display at the front?"

Carlos choked on the last little bit of wine he was swallowing, caramel eyes flicking up to see Nicholai had painted a devious smirk on his face.

"What? You don't think I saw you there that day?" He pouted, lifting the vodka to his lips again, "You must think I'm stupid."

The air in the apartment suddenly felt heavy.

"But then why... why didn't you..."

"Didn't I what?" Nicholai shrugged, "Run? Flee? You don't think I knew you were in Philly? I used to be _Spetsnaz_ , Carlos, give me _some_ credit."

Carlos set his spoon down, a number of questions running through his head, none of which he had time to vocalise before Nicholai took sympathy on him and preemptively tried to answer.

"I am tired of running, Carlos. It was almost a relief when I saw you, to be honest... though I never expected to run into you at a Russian deli halfway across the city." Nicholai nodded, "I figured the police would show up to haul me away. I was confused when they never came."

"So what? What did you think?" Carlos asked, finger beginning to tap anxiously on the countertop, "That I'd just let you walk away?"

Nicholai took another sip of the rapidly dwindling vodka. A distinct glaze in his eyes was beginning to birth, indicating the liquor was beginning to slowly permeate his blood.

He shrugged, "I wasn't sure... I thought, I could have been wrong. That my eyes were playing tricks on me. Or maybe-- maybe you didn't recognise me. Or... or..."

"Or what?"

"That you didn't care. That you forgave me. That you didn't want t--"

Carlos barked a laugh, "Forgave you?! After what you did?"

Nicholai rolled his eyes, "We've discussed this."

"Like it's a fucking inconvenience to you!" The younger man stood up so roughly that the stool he'd been perched on clamoured to the floor behind him, "Killing all of those innocent peo--"

"Again! Again with the innocent people!" Nicholai scoffed, "Why don't you stop padding your bullshit with made up innocents and just admit it."

"Admit _**what**_?!" 

"That this is about Murphy _fucking_ Seeker."

Carlos immediately circled the island, roughly grabbing Nicholai by the hair and pushing him back until he hit the fridge. The contents inside rattled and clinked loudly as they shook from the contact. The younger man kept his grip steady, ignoring the fingers that instinctively jolted up to grab at his fist out of fear.

"You get his name out of your filthy mouth." He growled, nostrils flaring in rage.

Despite the winces of pain, Nicholai remained defiant.

"Murphy Seeker, who was bleeding out of every fucking hole in his body and I'm supposed to _feel bad_ I didn't prolong his suffering?"

"Prolong his suffering?! You mean _save his life_?!" Carlos' grip on the older man's hair tightened. He could practically hear some silver strands being torn from the scalp.

"He would never have made it and you kn--"

Carlos used the fistful of hair to slam Nicholai's head into the fridge, not letting him finish his sentence in pure rage. 

"I wouldn't expect you to know what the fuck it's like to have a friend." He hissed slowly, abruptly releasing Nicholai and lunging to grab at his satchel on the island.

He tore through the contents, snatching his cellphone before holding it out to the Russian.

"I'll let you go right now if you have _one single person_ you could call who gave enough a shit that you've been missing for three weeks to come get you." He said with a sneer, " _ **ONE**_."

Nicholai stared at the phone, unmoving but for his Adams apple bobbing. 

"Exactly." Carlos said, "Exa--"

"Were you really _just_ friends, Carlos?"

Fireworks of outrage exploded behind Carlos' caramel eyes, grimace of fury contorting his handsome features as he dropped his cellphone to the floor and grabbed Nicholai by the chain around his throat. Nearly dragging the older man along with him, he threw him over the edge of the sofa, hurling curses at him the entire time. 

Nicholai immediately began to resist, trying to stand and move away but the impossibly firm grip Carlos had on his makeshift collar made any movement difficult, while severely restricting his air flow. 

"You know, Nick..." Carlos began, a hint of annoyed exasperation lacing through his voice, "The only time I've seen you cry and beg since you've been here is when I fucked you with that broomstick."

"C-Car--"

The younger man twisted the chain, crushing Nicholai's windpipe and cutting off the protest mid-syllable.

"I'd really like to see that again right about now..." He continued, free hand easily pulling down the fatigues he'd given to Nicholai, the fabric slipping down the older man's pale thighs slowly, "Because I'm in a really shitty mood now and _it's all your fault_."

"P-plea-se-- _**Gahh**_!"

Carlos wasn't even thinking straight when he stuffed two fingers in Nicholai's clenched entrance. It was an aggressive, inconsiderate penetration that had surely caused a tear or two as he scratched past the delicate tissue with his nails. But the response it had provoked from the older man was precisely what he needed to see, an almost-immediate sob heaving through Nicholai's chest, fingers still clawing at the chain around his throat.

"Not talking shit anymore, are you?" Carlos sneered cruelly. It was almost painful when he shoved a third digit in, his knuckles rubbing against each other uncomfortably. But he didn't care -- the gasps of horror and desperate pleas he evoked from Nicholai were worth it. 

"Pleas-se, Ca-arlos s-stop!" Nicholai bawled, "I-I'm s-orr-y!"

"You're fucking right you are!" Carlos snapped, forcing the digits in a bit deeper and tugging on the chain a bit tighter for just a few moments before he ripped his hand out, tossing the older man to the floor roughly afterwards. Nicholai gasped for air, squirming and heaving through tears. Mew-like pleas were huffing from him, barely audible mumbles of mixed up words in English and Russian.

"P-please... _Mne zhal_... I'll b- good... _ya budu_..."

Carlos looked at his fingers, a tinge of red glistening across them. He scoffed a breath, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted.

"Clean up your fucking mess!" Carlos spat, turning to snatch the wine bottle from the island before striding towards his bedroom, "Any more bullshit like that and you go back to punching bag duty!"


	6. The Broadcast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [warnings: child abuse mention, self harm mention, PTSD, heavy angst, graphic. Probably the heaviest chapter so please heed]

It had been four months.

The heat of August had dissipated to the coolness of October, and again to the chill of December. 

The government office Jill and Carlos worked at had a small Christmas potlatch before it closed for the holidays. Carlos had brought Nicholai's _plov_ , which was rapidly gobbled up by the office as compliments flooded his way. 

" _Damn, Carlos -- you can cook too?_ "

_"Husband material, for sure."_

Carlos shrugged off the comments, as he did the requests for him to come to _so-and-so_ 's Christmas dinners. Even Jill invited him out for drinks, but he shook his head, insisting he was going to try to head to Venezuela for a week to see his family. In reality, he had no such plans.

As he drove home, he contemplated how odd it was going to be to spend Christmas with Nicholai. The last time, they were both U.B.C.S mercenaries, and it was the barracks party that Mikhail had worked so hard to arrange at the last minute after Umbrella had blanket denied soldier requests for holiday leave. Even then, Carlos hadn't really interacted with Nicholai -- but watched him from across the room as he mingled with a few other of the known U.B.C.S bullies, Murphy complaining to him all the while about the Russian's latest abusive stint during training. 

He wondered if he should buy Nicholai a Christmas gift. He'd been good lately -- deferential and quiet, sitting in his corner in the kitchen when he wasn't cooking or cleaning. It had been almost two months since their last incident -- the _Murphy_ incident, he had wordlessly called it. The day after, Nicholai had apologised quietly, and blamed his boldness on the liquor. Carlos had accepted the apology.

Even the mild contemplation of getting Nicholai a gift was anxiety-provoking. What do you get someone you hated enough to kidnap and beat into submission? It was a thought that made Carlos snort in self-chastising amusement.

For a moment, he wondered if he could retrieve some of the older man's possessions, and Carlos found himself driving towards Nicholai's old apartment near the Petrovsky market. 

When he entered through the back door, he immediately noticed the mailbox for 417 had been stripped of the fake name Nicholai had used. Just as he was about to leave, Carlos noticed a short, chubby man wandering the hall inside the second door with a vacuum cleaner, and knocked loudly to call him over. 

"What?" He asked sternly, poking his bald head through a crack he made in the door.

"Looking for the Russian dude in 417." Carlos said flatly, but politely, "You know where he is?"

The man shook his head, "Buddy didn't pay his rent for t'ree mont's, evicted 'im. Couldn't even get in touch wit' him t' say."

Carlos nodded, "Well, what happened to his stuff then?"

"Tossed it. Auctioned it. I dunno. Wasn't much in there, t'be honest."

Carlos thanked the man and left, sighing as he strode across the parking lot and slipped back into his car. 

After a moment of consideration, he decided to stop at Petrovsky market and see if he could get some ingredients Nicholai would like to cook with.

It was odd, stepping back through those doors, like it were a portal in time. Festive tinsels and little trees decorated the aisles, but other than that -- it looked and smelled exactly the same. He wandered through reverently, poking his head around a display to see the spot he'd first seen Nicholai. It took him a moment to realise it would have been the spot Nicholai had first seen him as well. 

He sighed, a few steps bringing him to the spice aisle. Sure enough, a small tin of double-smoked Hungarian paprika made it into his hands. He wondered if Nicholai could make goulash. 

He snatched a few other things -- sausages that looked and smelled appealing, some imported chocolates, and a small, glass jar of some sauce that everyone seemed to be clamouring around to grab at least one of. Carlos had no idea what it was, but figured Nicholai would. As he passed his items to the cashier, a glimmering display behind the register caught his eye.

"Uhh -- excuse me?" Carlos peeped at the young woman ringing through his items, "Could I get one of those?" He pointed to the display, where green-labeled liquor bottles were arranged neatly. 

He took a moment to read the label once he'd packed the items in his car. 

Most of the words were in Cyrillic, but an English translation was slapped on a sticker at the bottom.

Nemiroff Horseradish Vodka.

Carlos cringed, "Gross, Nicholai." He murmured to himself, stuffing the bottle back in the bag before making the journey home. 

It was 6:30 p.m by the time he arrived.

Nicholai immediately groaned about him being late -- insisting the bread he had baked would have been better "45 minutes ago when it was fresh!"

But it still smelled lovely. The whole apartment smelled like yeast and the meaty stew that had been warming on the stove. It was comforting. Nicholai immediately began filling a bowl for him, setting the beautiful, round loaf he'd made on a cutting board on the island. 

Nicholai seemed surprised when Carlos handed him the bag from Petrovsky as he settled down into his usual stool, "Is that why you are late? You went all the way over there?"

"I was driving around aimlessly after work. Ended up in the area." It was a dumb lie, but Nicholai knew better than to question him.

Immediately, Nicholai noticed the bottle of Nemiroff, and clearly tried to suppress a smile. 

"So you _did_ notice the display."

"It sounds disgusting! Horseradish?" Carlos crinkled his nose, eagerly spooning the first bite of the beefy stew into his mouth. It tasted like heaven. 

Nicholai snorted, unpacking the rest of the items. He held up the mysterious jar of bright red sauce, "Do you even know what this is?"

Carlos, cheeks stuffed with food, shook his head, "Everyone was grabbing one though so I figured--"

"It's _khrenovina_. Horseradish."

Carlos rolled his eyes, "Oh, goody. More horseradish."

"It will taste good with the bread." Nicholai insisted, popping the jar open and setting it next to the loaf, "Can you cut it?"

A strange mutation in intention always happened around this time of the day. Carlos had been ignoring his thoughts about it, and would never vocalise them, though a part of him was sure Nicholai had contemplated something similar. 

Namely, that things felt normal. Almost natural. It was only the little oddities that made it all uncanny, and was even starting to cause some discomfort.

In recent time, Carlos had felt like he was coming home to a friend, a lover, or a caring roommate. He'd savour the smells and sounds of life in his apartment when he walked through the door. And until Nicholai turned around, he couldn't see the chain that was still dangling from his neck. Granted, he'd switched it for a much smaller, much lighter one in recent weeks, one with a proper, comfortable collar -- but it was there. Until Nicholai needed to cut something, he didn't think about how the man wasn't allowed access to knives or even sharp forks. Until Nicholai needed to go to the bathroom and had to ask for permission, he sometimes forgot about their odd predicament altogether. 

Carlos fished his pocketknife from his belt, flicking it open and slicing up the loaf awkwardly. Once he did, Nicholai immediately spooned some of the sauce onto a slice, setting it on a small plate and handing it to Carlos. 

The younger man tentatively sniffed the offering, the sinus-clearing spice shooting into his nostrils abusively. He cocked his eyebrows and took a deep breath, before saying a prayer and taking a bite. 

Immediately, the horseradish assailed his tongue, burning it and causing him to sputter and cough loudly. Nicholai couldn't contain a laugh as Carlos hacked through the flavour, grabbing his water and drinking it down rapidly in an attempt to suppress the flames in his throat.

"Jesus, Nick!" He rasped, "That's not a condiment, that's an assault."

"Wait until you try the vod--"

The lighthearted smile that had been on Nicholai's face immediately dropped, his eyes flicking to the corner of the room where the television had been playing quietly in the background the whole day. Carlos followed the older man's eyes, turning on his stool to watch what had caught Nicholai's attention so fiercely. 

A blonde-haired reporter was speaking, a familiar red-and-white logo superimposed beside her head.

_**"--gainst the Umbrella Corporation goes to court this week. Prosecutors say they have enough evidence to seek massive restitution from the disgraced pharmaceutical company for the 1998 Raccoon City destruction incident. But Umbrella executives have lawyered up and are fighting back."** _

Carlos snatched the remote from the island, turning up the volume quickly as the news report continued. The screen flashed to a scene of bustling journalists and cameramen outside of the New York City Supreme Court, all crowded around a small group of people giving a press conference. Only one was speaking -- a tall, burly man in an all-black suit.

Camera clicks and shouted questions drowned out as the man began to speak, a black-gloved hand pushing a strand of long, silver hair out of his scarred face as he did. He had a deep, rolling Russian accent, and spoke plainly, confidently, even with a small bit of amusement laced through his words.

 _ **"The Umbrella Corporation denies any and all accusations that have been lodged against it. The case, frankly, is patently false and padded with unsubstantiated fabrications from the American government in an effort to cover up their own inaction."**_ He said, listening through the cacophony of questions that immediately emerged as he paused for a moment before continuing, apparently in response to one he had heard, _ **"The tragedy in Raccoon City is being used as a political football by your government. The American military did not even deploy a single soldier to help the efforts, leaving it up to the unprepared local police and the Umbrella Corporation's private security service to try and save civilians and contain the outbreak. That is all I am saying for now."**_

The broadcast flashed back to the blonde reporter, " _ **That was top Umbrella executive Sergei Vladimir outside of the courthouse this morning. KND8 will continue to follow the trial as it develops. In other news---"**_

"What a fucking asshole!" Carlos growled, switching the television off quickly, "How could he say t--"

The sentence was stoppered immediately when Carlos turned to look at Nicholai, whose flat expression and distant gaze hadn't changed at all.

"Nick?"

At the sound of his name, Nicholai gasped loudly, as though he hadn't breathed the entire time they had been watching the broadcast. His eyes widened and shot towards Carlos, who immediately cocked his head to the side in confusion. 

"What's wrong?"

"Mm?" Nicholai peeped, clearing his throat, before beginning to fiddle with the wooden utensils in front of him. 

"You know him?" Carlos asked, a bit of aggravation pulling through in his smarmy half-statement-half-accusation, "He seems like someone you'd know."

"You know him too." Nicholai sneered, "That's _the_ Colonel. The one who founded U.B.C.S. The one who signed your pay checks."

The younger man nodded, "Yeah, I remember now..." He shrugged, "But I didn't know him _personally_. You did, didn't you?"

Nicholai sighed loudly, adjusting the plain, grey cardigan Carlos had given him to cover himself, " _Da_. He raised me."

Carlos' eyebrows cocked up again, "Don't tell me that's your father or some shit?"

The Russian scoffed, " _Nyet_! No. Not by blood. I was an orphan and he took me in when I was 7 or 8. Can't remember."

Propping his elbow on the counter, Carlos set his cheek on his fist, "Then what? He adopted you. Raised you to be a little greedy bastard. Took you under his stereotypical movie villain wing?"

"More like... took me under his stereotypical movie villain _sheets_. And fist. And belt. And boot."

Carlos felt the next jeer he had lined up catch and fade away instantaneously. He dropped his hand to the counter, sitting up a bit straighter as he cleared his throat, "O-oh."

Nicholai shrugged, sighing loudly, "Take the good with the bad. I was happier to be off the street, most of the time. Especially in winter."

"Yeah but..."

"I always had food. And I got to learn how to read. He even had a tutor come see me when I was too busted up to go to school." 

Carlos began to awkwardly stir at the stew in his bowl, shrugging and speaking quietly, "Yeah, but that's not exactly..."

"You may have a difficult time understanding people's motivations, Carlos, but I don't have that problem."

The younger man shook his head, "You don't _have_ to, though. He sounds evil."

Nicholai shook his head, grabbing a sponge and quickly wiping away a spot of stew that had fallen to the counter, "He was not evil. Cruel, but not evil. Not until Umbrella. He was just doing to me what his father did to him, and what his grandfather probably did to his father. I can understand."

"How?" Carlos asked incredulously, a disbelieving smile coming across his lips, "How do you even try to understand something like that?"

Nicholai snatched a piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth, seemingly unconcerned for their protocols in his flustered state. Carlos wasn't concerned either.

"I didn't, at first. But as I got older -- I saw how broken he was, too. And I understood." He spoke through anxious chews, "He would hack himself up all the time. I don't even know how many nights I spent trying to pull knives out of his hand. Once, when I was 16, I walked in on him sawing into his arm with a serrated knife like it was a frozen tree trunk."

Carlos cringed, "Jesus Christ."

"He didn't even understand it himself!" Nicholai continued right away, grabbing another slice of bread, "He would be shocked when there was blood and skin all over the floor. Shocked!" He swallowed the massive bite, a dark chuckle escaping him, "Do you know how many therapists he shot? Probably 10! Like he wanted an answer for why he was so _fucked up_ that didn't include how his father..." His sentence faded off as a crinkle of disgust balled up his nose. 

"He just wanted to be given a pill that would make it all go away." Carlos sighed, "I know what that's like."

Nicholai nodded, " _Da_. Exactly. I thought he was doing better in the '80s. We were in Afghanistan. He was always in his element during war. He was a great soldier -- and then, _boom_! Soviet Union collapses. We lose out jobs. We lose our home. I think that was the breaking point for him."

"And then Umbrella snatched him up and..."

"Turned him into a _real_ monster. Not just a broken little boy who didn't know anything but how to suffer and cause suffering." Nicholai smirked, "He had a chance, once. He had a chance. He doesn't anymore." He pointed at the television, voice cracking, "And now? Now he is going to go to jail for those fucks? The ones who stole his chance?!" 

Carlos had lost his appetite. Despite how enticing the smells in the apartment still were, the thickness of the air was too heavy and he suddenly felt ill.

Nicholai began to tidy up the kitchen, casually asking if he were allowed to have a sip of the vodka tonight. He promised not to have more than one shot, so as to avoid his argumentative nature, but Carlos shrugged and told him he didn't care. 

"I'm just... going to shower and head to bed, I think."

The Russian nodded, "Can I still eat? I know I had some bread already--"

"Yeah, whatever you want." Carlos shrugged, slipping from the stool.

"I will make goulash tomorrow. I saw you bought paprika. That's all I was missing."

"Oh. Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing this chapter:


	7. Christmas Eve

Carlos didn't sleep the night of the broadcast.

Nor did he sleep the next, or the next after. 

He spent most of his Christmas Eve distracting himself with work at a cafe nearby, somehow completely unable to stay in the apartment with Nicholai. He felt anxious yet exacerbated, and every normal thing Nicholai did as he fussed about his daily chores grated on his nerves. 

The cafe kicked him out at closing, around 5 p.m, but he still couldn't bring himself to go home -- so he went to a diner, then a bar. The ones that were open on Christmas Eve were few and far between.

It was 2 a.m before he arrived home, the apartment dark when he pushed the door open. He tried to be quiet as he entered, but the mass of keys for the excessive amount of locks he'd accumulated around the house clattered loudly when they slipped from his fingers. Almost immediately, the light in the kitchen went on, Nicholai in his corner, poised up on his knees with his hand on the nearby switch. 

"Carlos?" He mumbled, clearly sleep-groggy, "What happened?"

"Sorry..." Carlos sighed, realising they were entering the uncannily normal part of their lives again, "I just got caught up with work."

"Oh..." Nicholai yawned, "I made lunch but you never came, and I made dinner but you never came. Do you want me to heat something up?"

"No.. No. I just want to go to bed."

The Russian nodded, waiting until Carlos had crossed the threshold of his room until he turned off the light. 

Carlos set his bag down and kicked off his shoes, plopping down into his bed otherwise fully dressed. He curled onto his side and wished for sleep, hoping he was exhausted enough to finally drift off.

He did.

~

_The subway lights flickered, the fluorescent lights abusively beating into his eyes as he looked over his shoulder to silently scold them._

_"The generators for the city might be going... I had this fear."_

_He looked back when the raspy, familiar voice caressed his ears, staring across the aisle to see Mikhail, forearms perched on his thighs._

_"It'll be okay, Cap." He didn't think the words that came out of him._

_"Will it, Carlos?" Mikhail sighed, sitting up with a soft, paternalistic smile._

_Where were his wounds? His uniform was pristine. Crisp. Pressed. Carlos looked down at his own to find the same thing._

_"What do you mean, Cap?" He couldn't even tell if his lips were moving, or if it was his voice._

_"What do I mean, Carlos?" Mikhail cocked his head to the side, "What are you doing?" He extended an arm with an accusatory finger, pointing to their immediate left, "What **are** you doing?" He repeated. _

_Carlos felt his eyes following the length of the muscular arm, slowly tilting his gaze down towards the other end of the subway car. But it wasn't a subway car at all -- it was a room. His second bedroom. The carpet was blossoming red stains. Spots emerging where there were none, as though the floor itself was wounded. The spots were growing, meeting the edges of others. The whole carpet was red. It was bleeding into the car, tendrils slowly worming down the aisle._

_When he turned back to Mikhail, the man wasn't alone._

_Murphy was sitting next to him, arms crossed, brow furrowed tightly into the rim of his knitted cap._

_"Murph!" A cracked gasp, "Murph I missed you so much!"_

_The young man started silently, nose almost crinkling in disdain for a moment before turning to Mikhail and whispering something in the Captain's ear. Mikhail nodded and hummed as he spoke._

_His eyes stung. He knew he was crying, he could feel it. His throat hurt._

_"I agree with Mr. Seeker, Carlos. But it will be okay."_

_~_

Carlos' eyes shot open, a burning gasp heaving into his lungs. 

It took him a moment to realise his nose wasn't nestled into his pillow, but a grey cardigan that smelled like washing detergent, and that his hands weren't gripping his blanket, but an arm. The soothing sensation of being held immediately became apparent.

"N-Nic-k?" He hiccuped jaggedly, head tilting upwards to see a pair of jade eyes looking down at him. 

"You were screaming..." He mumbled quietly, "I think you were having a soldier dream."

Nicholai slowly let him sit back on his own, pulling his arms away from how they'd been cradled around the younger man's body tightly and stepping back from the bed.

Carlos ran a clammy hand over his face. It was drenched in cool sweat. He could feel his legs jittering, muscles jerking and trembling. 

"Are you going to be alright?" Nicholai cut the silence with a soothing whisper, "I can make some te--"

His offer was abruptly cut off by Carlos grabbing his chain and pulling him closer, prompting him to gasp loudly. The younger man's hand was shaking, rattling the makeshift lead loudly. Carlos' other hand darted towards the bedside table, where he immediately snatched his keys and began to impotently try to fit one by one in the padlock of the collar. 

Nicholai's eyes widened as he noticed Carlos becoming increasingly upset by the fact he couldn't find a match. Tears began to roll down the younger man's cheeks as metal scraped on metal. Finally, he found one to fit, grunting in relief and forcing the lock open before he pulled the collar away and tossed it to the ground, by which point he was openly sobbing. 

Nicholai didn't even one second to register what had happened before Carlos thew his arms around his shoulders, gasping, jagged cries heaving from him as he squeezed their bodies together tightly.

"I'm-I'm-m s-s-s-orry!" Carlos whined loudly, burying his head in Nicholai's neck. 

The older man stood silently for a moment before he reciprocated the hug, hand slowly settling on Carlos' hips before sliding around his back.

"It's... okay." He said softly, "I- I understand."

"N-no y-y-you do-don't!" Carlos sobbed, "I'm s-so, so s-sorry!!"

"This is no way to spend Christmas morning, Carlos."


	8. Merry Christmas, Mr. Zinoviev

Carlos' eyes felt puffy and his cheeks swollen when he woke up. 

When he cast a glance over to the alarm clock on his bedside table, it read 1:45 p.m.

He'd never slept in so late in his life.

Stumbling out of bed on shaky, tired muscles, he slipped into the en-suite bathroom. An intent assessment of his reflection confirmed his suspicion -- he looked like shit. His eyes were red and dry, his nose was flushed, and his cheeks looked like he'd just been punched in both of them. His throat also hurt, mouth so dry it was like he'd sucked on cotton buds the entire night. 

Immediately, he turned the cold water in the sink on, cupping his hands beneath the stream and splashing it up into his face in an effort to wash away some of the soreness. He drank as he washed, trying to quench the desert that had become of his throat. 

Once he was done, he didn't even bother to towel himself off, preferring the coolness the moisture brought to his skin, even if it was dripping onto his t-shirt. 

He slowly tried to make his way to the kitchen, but stopped in the hall when he spotted Nicholai, standing over the kitchen island, hands covered in flour.

Carlos stood and watched for a moment, tongue darting out to lick at his lips as everything that had happened the previous night came into full realisation in his head. He felt awkward, almost frightened, with no idea of what to do or say. 

Nicholai seemed to know that, and without even looking up to acknowledge him, he spoke.

"Are you just going to stand there or are you going to come here and help me?"

Carlos snorted, shuffling up to his usual stool and sitting. His eyes flicked between the mass of dough on the counter and the older man, who was intently ripping small pieces off and flattening the into perfect circles with his palm and thumb.

"W-what are you making?" 

" _Pelmeni_." He said, "They're dumplings. For tomorrow, though. They need to rest in the freezer for a day."

He demonstrated the technique by spooning some filling he'd made into the centre of one of the pieces of flattened dough, but Carlos couldn't follow the way his fingers rapidly moved and pinched to make it look like a little hat. He set it on a freezer-paper lined tray once he was done, repeating the process with another piece of dough. 

"What's the filling?"

"Just some spices, leftover minced meat and... that horseradish sauce you bought."

"Oh come on..." Carlos rolled his eyes, "I can't get a break from that shit, can I?"

"Not so long as you have a Russian in your house, no."

As Carlos took an offered piece of dough and began trying to flatten it, he realised they had returned to that uncanny space of normality. Even though Nicholai wasn't wearing the chain, he had been, and it felt strange for him to be acting like everything was normal. It sat heavily in his throat as he stared at the dough, noticing his disk was far thicker, and extremely misshapen, in comparison to Nicholai's.

"This doesn't feel right." He murmured, the words almost involuntary.

Nicholai peered over, smirking as he assessed the awful wrapper Carlos had made, "It does look like shit, yes."

Carlos groaned, dropping the dough, "No, not the dumpling, Nick. _**This**_."

"What is _this_?"

"This!" Carlos waved his hand around, "You should fucking hate me and you don't and I can't understand that."

"I hate you for ruining my dough."

"Nicholai!"

The Russian sighed loudly, fishing the dumpling he was holding and tossing it onto the freezer paper before assessing Carlos closely, jade eyes flicking over the younger man's face. 

"It took me a while, but I finally remembered that night. The night you first came to me on the street. Do you remember?"

Carlos nodded.

"Do you remember what you said to me?"

Carlos nodded again.

"Do you know why I laughed? When you told me you wanted me to suffer?"

"No."

"Because I have suffered already, Carlos. I have suffered more pain and hurt and cruelty than you could ever inflict on me yourself. If it was just about me needing to suffer -- that debt was paid, a long time ago." He grinned an inappropriate grin, one of genuine amusement, "Everything is just a transaction. You may think that is cold, but it is true. Nothing is personal. Only bleeding hearts like you believe there must be some sort of cosmic justice that rights every single wrong in real time."

Nicholai sighed loudly, snatching another piece of dough from the ball and flattening it out, "I simply can not process how illogical it is. Mikhail was like that, too."

Carlos snorted, "He spent all night chastising me."

The older man laughed, "Even in death he's trying to be a hero!"

Carlos picked up his discarded dough, rolling it back into a ball between his palms and trying to flatten it out again, "Captain couldn't have liked that... Sergei guy."

"No! Every board meeting was a war zone. The two constantly rammed horns." Nicholai finished another dumpling effortlessly, "Mikhail would get his pay slashed on a weekly basis for insubordination! He just couldn't stop. He didn't care."

"What did they fight about?" Carlos asked curiously, content with the somewhat round shape he'd made of his dough.

"Everything! Remember the Christmas party? The one that Mikhail put on because Umbrella denied everyone's leave? Remember how Mikhail wasn't even there? It's because he called Sergei a _vyperdys_ and he responded with a little _correctional tap_ to the jaw that left his face bruised so he didn't want to show."

"I'm assuming that's a really, really bad thing to call someone?"

Nicholai nodded, rubbing his lips together in amusement. But the suppressed smile slowly dissipated as another memory came into his mind.

"There was this other time when Sergei took a... _liking_... to one of the young conscripts in Charlie platoon he saw during a visit to the barracks. And of course, what Sergei wants..."

"He gets." Carlos finished the sentence quietly. Nicholai continued after a sigh.

"The boy spent the next month in intensive care, and then, when it became apparent he had brain damage, he was fired." Nicholai took a deep, deep breath through his nose, setting another dumpling down on the tray before gripping the edge of the counter like he was trying to steady himself, "He hadn't worked for U.B.C.S long enough to get any pension or severance..."

Carlos felt his lip twitch in disgust, nostrils flaring.

"When Mikhail found out, he was **_so_** angry. I remember being dragged along the ground as I tried to hold him back from marching to Sergei's office. That night, he didn't care even if Sergei killed him. He just wanted to scream at him, no matter the cost." Nicholai took another deep breath, "He gave all his pay to that boy. I remember he even called his wife in Russia and asked her to find a small job to pay her own bills for just a few months so he could send him more. He was a good man."

Silence settled in the kitchen for a moment, Nicholai resuming making his dumplings while Carlos still fiddled with the single piece of dough he'd been given, still unable to make it as round or as thin as Nicholai could.

After a few minutes, Carlos spoke.

"Do you want to... to go out today?" He shrugged, "I know it's Christmas, and there's not a lot open but..."

" _Da_." Nicholai smiled softly, "I can finish these if you want to shower."

"You sure you don't want my help?" Carlos asked sarcastically, handing the older man his misshapen pancake.

"I think I can manage."


	9. The Impossible Brightness of Snow

Nicholai hadn't wanted anything but to walk somewhere.

A park. A cemetery. Anywhere. 

Carlos knew of a lonely trail on the edge of the city, and he took him there. He'd walked that trail alone in the past, but never in the winter. Nicholai joked about it being a dog walking trail -- a lighthearted jeer about the _leash_ he'd worn for months. Carlos had smiled but it had stung. Nicholai noticed and felt badly.

The park authority had already locked the gates when they'd arrived, but they just jumped it like giggly teenagers breaking into a construction site. They disappeared into the trail as dusk approached, the stars poking out from the sea of orange and blue in the sky.

Nicholai would stop to crouch and touch the snow with reverence, kneading it between his reddening fingers and even holding it to his cheeks happily. Carlos would watch him play with it like he were a child, tossing the soft, untouched white fluff up in the air and letting it sprinkle down into his hair.

The darker it got, the more the snow sparkled, reflecting the emerging moonlight and making it brighter than it should have been or would have been in the city. 

The bits of flakes that had landed on Nicholai's head made his silver hair glitter, and the sea of white sparkles around him coupled with the excited smile on his face made him almost look delicate. 

Carlos had found a tree stump to sit on, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to combat the cold even though Nicholai didn't seem to be touched by it at all. 

"Are we going to have a snowball fight?" The younger man asked, breaking the speechless silence that had been nothing but the crackle and whistle of the trees swaying.

" _Nyet_. This snow is too soft and dry to make a good snowball." Nicholai peeped, "But if we did -- I would win."

"Mmhm, okay. Sure." Carlos rolled his eyes and shook his head, amused.

Nicholai trudged through the snow to close the distance between them, grinning, "It's true."

"Oh yes, yes I am sure it is." Carlos said again, sarcastically with a sigh. 

The older man shook his head with a chuckle, suddenly slipping his arms out of the jacket Carlos had given him to wear out and wrapping it around the younger man's shoulders.

Carlos' eyebrows cocked up in surprise at the sudden gesture, one that left Nicholai in only a grey t-shirt.

"What are you doing? You're going to freeze."

"You need it more than I do." He smirked, "I'm Russian, we can survive a bit of cold."

"Must be all the horseradish." Carlos murmured, unable to suppress a smile when his off-hand comment caused the other man to throw his head back and laugh, "No, I'm serious! If I brought any of that shit back home, they'd shoot me."

"Where in Venezuela are you from?"

"Mariguitar. That's where my family is now." Carlos shivered, "They fish."

"Have you been recently?"

Carlos shook his head, "No. Not for over a year. We call every week, though. I miss them."

Nicholai nodded, "Is it nice there?"

"Beautiful. The beach goes on forever. And the water is so clear you can watch the crabs run across the sand beneath you while you swim."

Carlos' eyebrows cocked up as he watched the older man drop to his knees and settle into the snow, sitting it in casually as though it were grass and peering up at him.

"I have never been to the beach." He murmured, "I would like to go."

"I'd take you now but it's minus 400 and my dick feels like it's going to crack off, so I think we should wait until it's a bit wa--"

"Does it, now?" Nicholai interrupted with a smirk, shuffling forward slightly on his knees and floating his hands up onto Carlos' thighs, stroking them gently.

Despite the cold, Carlos felt his cheeks flare up to a burn, a flush rushing across his incredulous features, eyes wide as he watched Nicholai shuffle a bit closer, until the man's chest brushed against the inside of his legs.

"Uh-m, N-Nick?"

"Do you want me to warm you up, Carlos?" Nicholai beamed a seductive smile, giggling when he saw the younger man's Adams apple bob harshly.

"B-but..."

"But?" Nicholai's fingers began to fiddle with his zipper.

"Y-you don't have t-to."

"I know!" The older man laughed, slipping his hand into the fabric gateway and softly playing his fingers on the flesh inside.

Carlos grunted, scrubbing a palm over his face in exasperation. His body immediately began to react to the sensations, but his mind was screaming at him.

It felt wrong, after all that had happened. After all he'd done. 

But when he deigned to peek, Nicholai didn't seem to have any such internal conflict. His cold-flushed cheeks were softened with a devious smile, nothing but contentedness showing through his jade eyes. 

"You r-really d-don't..."

Nicholai stopped his stroking, looking up with a sigh, "I haven't gotten off in four months. And unless you were fucking someone at work, I don't think you have either. We're men. Just relax."

"O-oka-- _ahh_!" Before Carlos could even accept the flat offer, Nicholai's head dipped into his hips, the older man's tongue lulling from his lips and lapping at the flesh he'd pulled from the opening in Carlos' pants. He was only half-hard, the cold battling his arousal, but a few moments of rough licking prompted the firmness to grow to its full potential.

Carlos clutched at the tree stump he was seated on, head rolling on his shoulders and eyes fluttering shut. Happy mews began to breathe from him, getting louder as Nicholai wrapped his lips around his cockhead, suckling gently while stroking the rest of the shaft. 

The younger man couldn't resist reaching out to run a hand across Nicholai's head, petting through the hair gently as more and more of his cock disappeared into Nicholai's impossibly warm, moist mouth. 

Nicholai had been right -- but for him, it had been far longer than the four months. He hadn't taken an interest in anyone since moving to Philadelphia. Since Raccoon City. Since Murphy. He joked with his cousin that he lived like a monk. It's not that he couldn't get a partner -- plenty of gorgeous men and women approached him every day. But he simply was not interested. He had no libido whatsoever, and blamed the medication he'd been put on for his PTSD.

In a way, he was almost surprised how much he was responding to Nicholai. The burning in his hips tickled at his stomach, and made him feel a deep, roiling desire he hadn't in so _damn_ long. 

He could feel the rings of Nicholai's throat massaging his length, garbled peeps of happiness moaning through the older man's sucking. Just barely, Carlos noticed Nicholai was stroking himself through his pants, palm rubbing over his bulge in rhythmic synchronicity with the little bobs of his head.

Nicholai didn't want to expose Carlos to the cold for too long, deciding he'd keep as much of his cock buried in his throat and suck firmly instead, his cheeks hollowing deeply as they pressed against the flesh in his mouth. He could already feel cum beginning to trickle down his throat. Carlos tasted beautiful.

When his hips began to jerk and thrust involuntarily, Nicholai knew the younger man's orgasm was close. He smirked to himself at how quickly it had come, wondering if he was really that good or if Carlos was just desperate. He settled on it being a mix of both as he smirked around the twitching cock, slurping happily. 

Carlos let out a bellowing moan of delight when he released, some birds in a distant tree becoming spooked at the loud noise and fluttering off. He held Nicholai's neck softly as the older man swallowed his cum contently, not pulling away until the cock had begun to soften. There was a smile on his face as he did, licking his flushed lips and tucking Carlos away carefully, warm hand covering the organ until it was protected by the fabric of his pants.

Carlos wasn't quite sure what to say, entire body still trembling from the high. 

"D-did you?" He cleared his throat loudly.

"No! But I got what I needed." Nicholai smiled, moving to stand. 

"D-do you want me to?"

Immediately, the smile dropped from Nicholai's face, "No. I don't like to be touched down there. By anyone. It upsets me."

"I understand. Sorry." He cleared his throat again, tugging off the second jacket Nicholai had given him and handing it back, "Come on, let's go home."

"Home?" Nicholai cocked a brow, accenting every amused word with a question, "Let's? Go? Home?"

Carlos sputtered, "Y-you know what I mean!"

The drive was unceremonious and quiet. Nicholai had nestled his head on Carlos' shoulder at one point, something the younger man responded to by wrapping his arm around in a small, awkward embrace. Nicholai seemed to appreciate it anyway, and it wasn't lost on either one of them that they were both smiling. 

That was, until they rounded the corner where Carlos' apartment was located, and saw a convoy of big, black SUVs lining the street outside the parking lot.

Nicholai immediately jerked away, breath catching in his throat. 

"What the fuck?" Carlos muttered, squinting to try and see the license plates of the massive vehicles, eyes shooting open widely as he managed to catch a glimpse of the small, familiar red and white logo embedded onto the bumper of one of the cars, "Jesus. W-- I'll turn around."

"No." Nicholai shook his head, "Don't."

Carlos stopped the car at the curb, still a few metres away from the nearest SUV. He looked at Nicholai desperately, who was staring out at the convoy with a blank expression. 

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, a bit of desperate anxiety in his voice. His hand lunged to the console, snatching his cellphone clumsily, "I can call Jill. She'd have an army here in--"

"No." Nicholai shook his head again, "That would be pointless."

"What are we going to do then?" Carlos asked, voice breathy. 

"We? Nothing." Nicholai rubbed his lips together, hand moving to unbuckle his belt, "He's not here for you."

Carlos grabbed the older man's wrist, shaking his head, "Nick... Please."

When Nicholai turned to look at him, the depth of his jade eyes was slightly muted by the red lights glaring from the back of the cars. They stared at each other, a heaviness settling between them that made the lump that had crashed through the bottom of Carlos' stomach roil and jerk inside of him. Nicholai rested one of his hands on Carlos' just as the back door to one of the SUVs opened. 

They could both see the figure stepping out of the car through the corner of their eyes like a black spectre emerging from the darkness, but they didn't turn to watch, preferring to stare at each other.

"I never even got to-to say I w-was sorry. Properly sa-y it." Carlos' voice was cracking. 

"You did. You are." Nicholai said, voice hushed, "And you didn't have to anyway."

The belt snapped back into the door, Nicholai's fingers wrapped around his door's handle and tugged on it. 

" _Adiós por ahora_." He said with a sigh. “ _Feliz Navidad.”_

With that, stepped out of the car quickly. When it shut behind him, it felt impossibly loud, like a gunshot going off in Carlos' brain.

Nicholai met Sergei halfway. The Colonel was so much bigger in real life than he seemed on television. Nicholai almost looked small in comparison. 

Carlos watched them both walk back to the SUV, an acidic taste welling up in his throat. He watched Sergei open the same door he'd come out of, ushering Nicholai in with an impatient hand and words he couldn't hear.

Nicholai shot him a final look before he disappeared into the car. He had the audacity to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter shall be the last!


	10. Good for You (and Good Luck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter!

The _pelmeni_ Nicholai had made had been sitting in the freezer since Christmas -- nearly four months. 

Only when Carlos needed the baking sheet they were aligned on did he dump them into a ziplock bag and shove them back in, far at the back of the freezer. 

He told himself he would make them, eventually. He occasionally looked at recipes, but found he couldn't stare at them for too long. 

That morning, while getting ready for work, he insisted he would finally do it when he got home. A part of him insisted Nicholai would be furious if he let them burn away in the freezer forever. Another part of him told him to only eat a few at a time, so as to make them last longer. He didn't know why. 

He'd gotten a new desk at work -- one near a window. He liked to look out at the melting snow, and the squirrels rushing across the grassy parts of the parking lot. It was also a bit quieter. Some days, he could go hours without talking to someone. And that was how he'd come to like it. 

It was almost 4:30 p.m before he heard his name being called. At first, he internally cursed the timing -- he just had a half hour before he could go home. He had been so close to peace and quiet the entire day. But then he realised it was Jill's voice, and she seemed quite frantic.

"Carlos!! Carlos, come here!! Quick!!"

Carlos darted from his desk and strode in long strides, a concerned expression falling across his face as he tried to orient where she was. He was quick to find it, helped in part by the fact half the office was clamouring around the main television in the break room. Jill's small hand was poking out over the crowd, waving at him. As he approached, she demanded people make a path for him so that he could get closer.

"Carlos, you're not going to believe this!" She said, exasperated, remote in hand, pointing to the screen.

His eyes flicked towards where she was directing his attention. 

A news broadcast. A handsomely dressed anchorwoman was standing before a bustling crowd of police officers and ambulance attendants, crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. He listened closely.

" ** _\--estigators say that in the early hours of the morning, the fire department was called to 1926 High Street in Manhattan, where a condominium was ablaze. After putting the fire out, the department says a routine investigation of the premises turned up the discovery of two bodies, nearly burned beyond all recognition."_**

The screen flashed to footage of firemen sorting through burned rubble and charred brick walls.

Two photos were superimposed on the footage, both of which made Carlos' heart sink into his stomach.

_**"Police now say the bodies are those of Nicholai Zinoviev and Sergei Vladimir -- two employees of the Umbrella Corporation. The disgraced pharmaceutical company has been on trial for its role in the 1998 Raccoon City Destruction incident since last January. The jury had just moved into deliberations last night.** _

_**Vladimir, 65, was the top executive at the centre of the trial, and prosecutors had said they were anticipating a guilty verdict that would have brought with it a multi-life sentence."** _

Carlos felt like puking, his guts began to churn and roil angrily as he continued to watch, unblinking as the screen flashed back to the journalist. 

**_"In a bizarre twist of events, Police say Zinoviev, 36, shot Vladimir at close range before setting the condominium ablaze and turning the gun on himself shortly after. No other residents of the building have reported injuries. For KDNY3, I'm Lisa Chang."_ **

Jill turned down the volume, sighing loudly. 

"Can you believe that, Carlos?" She said, leaning closer to him, "He was alive this entire fucking time!" Anger began to well up in her voice, "He was alive and now he'd sunk the entire fucking trial against Umbrella!"

Carlos couldn't respond, he was working through trying to swallow the immense lump of coal that had developed at the back of his throat while Jill continued to rant.

"He never faced justice and, without Vladimir, Umbrella won't either!" She nearly growled, tossing the remote to the ground, "I just-- I can't-- _Gah_!"

She stormed off seconds later, clearly needing a moment to compose herself. As she did, the rest of the crowd slowly began to dissipate. Carlos still stood before the screen, eyes fixed on nothing at all. 

Seconds turned to minutes. Minutes to more. He couldn't move. 

But as the lights in the office began to flicker off, one by one, a cracked whisper escaped his lips.

"Good for you, Nick." 

~

It had taken him a few extra days to finally try the _pelmeni_.

That weekend, he stood at the kitchen island and sighed loudly, as though preparing for some traumatic event that wasn't more than pulling a bag of frozen dumplings out of the freezer. 

He had the recipe printed out, and rolled his eyes in a mix of amusement and disdain when he saw the finished product called for a side of horseradish sauce. Sorting through the fridge, he found the aged bottle of _khrenovina._ A quick glance a the expiry date showed the product was meant to last through some distant, post-apocalyptic future year. 

He tossed the dumplings into the salted, boiling pot of water he'd prepared -- gasping when he saw one amongst the perfectly uniform little hat-shapes that had clearly been made from the mangled wrapper he'd formed. It was big and stupid looking in comparison to the rest -- like a fat, oily rat bumbling amongst slim, fluffy mice.

"Fuck you, Nick." He grinned widely, refusing to believe his eyes were watering of their own accord and ignoring the pinch of pain that rapidly grabbed at his throat. 

He also ignored how his hand trembled as he picked up the pot and drained the little dumplings, and the sniffles that he'd suddenly developed.

He waited for them to drain dry, and then tossed them with butter and dill like the recipe asked him to, dumping them onto a dish he had waiting. He spooned the horseradish sauce on the side before standing back to look at the plate of steaming, glistening, petit bites.

And then, after a moment of silence, he started to bawl.

He couldn't control the sobs that came from him, nor did he try. He felt like he looked ridiculous -- a grown man standing in his own kitchen, face red and tears pouring from his eyes over a plate of dumplings. But they were more than that, he realised through his sobs, they were the last little bit of Nicholai that existed in the world. 

He wasn't sure how many minutes passed before he could move again, fingers white as they clutched to the edge of the island desperately, but the dumplings weren't steaming anymore. 

His throat hurt so much, every breath burned. And it reminded him he still had that _damn_ vodka he'd bought for Nicholai. He pulled it from the cupboard, pouring himself a foul-smelling glass and setting it beside the pate as though he were creating a display and not intending to eat. He didn't know if he wanted to. He wasn't hungry.

"You're g-going to kill me w-with all this horseradish crap, Nick." He mewed to himself, "I'm not sure I c--"

_**DING** _

The sound of the doorbell caused him to hiccup a gasp, eyes widening in shock. He quickly wiped his face on his sleeve, shuffling around the kitchen island towards the front door -- wood busted along the seam from all the locks he'd had to remove. 

He peered through the looking glass, quickly opening the door when he realised it was a courier. 

"Carlos... Oliveira?" The postman asked, trying to hide the cock of his eyebrow as he took in the other man's tear-stained face.

Carlos cleared his throat, "Y-yeah. That's me."

He thanked the courier, accepting the small package with thanks. It was stamped from Venezuela. Immediately, his mood became higher -- his family had told him they'd put something in the mail during their call a week ago. 

He closed the door and immediately brought it to the island, cutting it open sloppily with all the fervour of a child opening a Christmas gift. Inside, was a single, unlabelled VHS tape.

Carlos rushed to the TV, stuffing it in the VCR and grabbing his remote. He wiped his face with his sleeve again, still sniffling though vibrating with excitement. He sat on the couch quickly, leaning forward with curiosity. 

"When did you guys get a camera!" He said aloud, grin immediately tugging at his flushed cheeks as the screen crackled to life with a shot of the beach in his hometown. It was sunset, and the orange glow of the horizon made the water look like it was sparkling as it ebbed and flowed slowly onto the sand. 

After a moment, the screen switched to a different scene -- his family. All of them were sitting around a plastic table, grinning wildly. His mother and father were at the front, and his cousins and aunt were piled around them. He could see some of their small house in the background, laundry blowing in the wind on the clothes line. 

" _Hola_ , Carlos!" They all shouted in unison. Carlos immediately started to laugh, heart fluttering. It had been so long since he'd seen them.

His mother began to speak on her own, " _Te extraño, mi hijo_!" she said, pressing her palm to her lips and blowing a kiss through the camera, "I hope you eating lots. Do not work too hard, my son." She said, trying out her English like she always did on the phone. His father piped up immediately, " _Ven a casa! ¡Te echo de menos_!"

Suddenly, the camera began to jitter and jerk, as though it were being manhandled from behind. 

A few seconds of fiddling passed before it began to turn to point to what was behind it -- all of the air immediately deflating from Carlos' lungs, his eyes widening so much it was almost painful.

" _Hola_ , Carlos." Nicholai smiled into the camera, "You're right -- it is nice here."

Carlos coughed a single, barking laugh of disbelief. 

"And your mother is a very good cook!" He said, looking off camera and translating, his Spanish rough but endearing, " _Eres una buena cocinera_!" Carlos could hear his mother laugh in response. 

Nicholai winked, " _Hasta la próxima, amigo._ "

The screen crackled black, the VCR stopping and ejecting the tape as it came to a finish.

Carlos was left with the remote almost slipping out of his hand, mouth gaped and eyes wide.

"Y-you... you..." He hiccuped, words flooding into delirious laugher. Slowly, he fell back onto the couch, sinking into the pillows and looking up at the ceiling, "You're something else, Nicholai Zinoviev."

After a minute of processing what he'd seen, he slowly stood up, deciding he was hungry after all.

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy to have gotten this out. I really enjoyed writing this, I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> Please give me any feedback you have! I appreciate you reading, everyone <3
> 
> ALSO: In my head canon for this, Nicholai and Sergei both escaped. Obviously, in the game, Sergei doesn't die until 2002, and Wesker is the one who kills him. So I feel like it would make more sense in saying the two faked their own deaths (in light of the fact Sergei was about to be convicted), Sergei escaped to Russia where he'd stay with Umbrella until his canon death, and Nicholai fled to South America.


	11. Happy Valentine's Day, Mr. Oliveira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This story was technically complete after Chapter 10, but I could not resist adding a last little fluffy chapter in celebration of this day**

Carlos trudged through the snow, grimacing and wincing as gusts of frosty air smacked him across the face.

The short walk from his car to the entrance of his apartment building felt like an abusive wrestle with Mother Nature, and he couldn't wait to sink into a hot bath and fight off the cold he already _knew_ he was developing.

A freak snowstorm had rolled its way through Philadelphia, sending everyone home early as upper management stressed over road conditions. Carlos had been more than happy to skip out of the office early, but the drive home had taken almost as much time as the rest of his shift would have been on a normal day. 

He gasped in relief as he tossed himself into the entryway, the wind howling behind him as the door slowly closed. 

Quickly, he checked his mail slot, noticing there was something inside. While he normally assumed it would be junk and had often left his box to accumulate for days, he'd been more keen on checking since Nicholai had last sent a VHS. He kept hoping another would come one day. 

Carlos excitedly snatched the letter from the box after opening it, the fine, textured paper clearly indicating it wasn't simple junk. 

The envelope was light and thin, and gave no indication as to what was inside. But the lack of a return or recipient address piqued his interest, indicating it had been hand-delivered. He marched up the stairs to his apartment so he could eagerly dig into the envelopes contents.

He tossed his keys onto the side console, kicking off his boots and hurriedly unwrapping himself from his scarf and coat. He left a trail of the clothes as he walked deeper and deeper into his unit, plopping his forearms down on his kitchen island before ripping the envelope open. 

Out popped a single calling card, affixed with a post-it note. 

**_CALL_ **

**_+86 739 34 1924_ **

Carlos cocked his eyebrows upwards, tearing the post-it note from the card. Out of curiosity, he flipped it over.

_**YES, NOW.** _

The young man scoffed, shaking his head as the mystery sender became more than obvious. 

It took him a few minutes to figure out how to use the card, but once he managed to get to the proper dial tone, he quickly punched in the digits and waited.

Three rings, and a familiar, accented drawl spilled through the receiver.

"Took you long enough."

Carlos snorted, "Hi, Nicholai."

The Russian paused for a moment, and Carlos loved that he could tell the older man had started to smile. So had he.

"How are y-- wait, how about _where_ are you?"

"Tianjin." There was a sound like he was taking an inhale of a cigarette, "And I'm fine..." An exhale, "You?"

Carlos shrugged, "I'm... Good. Whatever. Everything is the same, nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes."

"Is that a bad thing?"

The younger man bit the inside of his cheek, pondering the question, "I... guess not."

Another moment of pause passed between them. Nicholai's soft inhales and exhales accented every other second. In the distance, Carlos could faintly hear the sounds of heavy traffic. He supposed it must have been mid-morning in China. 

It was odd. Not unpleasantly odd, but _odd_ nonetheless. Specifically, the realisation that Nicholai had asked him to call just to _talk_. 

They were just talking. Useless nothings. Moments of distant togetherness. Uncannily domestic, soothing in its strangeness. Carlos broke the silence first.

"There's a staff party coming up next month--"

"Is all you people do party? Do none of you work?"

Carlos rolled his eyes with a disbelieving chuckle, continuing as though he hadn't been interrupted, " _And_ people keep asking me to make that rice... thing... that you made around Christmas. Don't know what excuse I can give them as to why I suddenly can't do it. Can you ask your friends in China if a rice shortage is imminent?"

"I can teach you how to make it." Nicholai said, mid-exhale. 

"Oh? And how are you gong to do that?" Carlos cocked an eyebrow, twisting the phone cord around his finger like a teenaged girl, "How about you just send me a pot. You somehow always seem to get things to my apartment in weird ways. Just make me a pot and magically blast it over."

Nicholai's smile grew wider. Again, Carlos could tell.

" _Nyet_. I will send you the instructions. It's easy. I promise. Even an idiot could do it."

"But could **_I_** do it?"

Carlos beamed when Nicholai started to laugh. It was a nice laugh. He missed his laugh, even if he'd heard it only a handful of times when he had the chance to hear it more.

"Mm... You could."

_**BEEP BEEP BEEP** _

The phone signalled the rapid approach of the end of the card's funds, something that made Carlos more upset than it should have. 

"Can I call you at this number again?" He asked, trying to sound casual.

"It's a hotel. I'm checking out today."

"Oh..."

_**BEEP BEEP BEEP** _

"Y-you'll get in touch again, right? You have to send me the recipe."

"I do."

Carlos nodded. It shouldn't have been the relief it was.

_**BEEP BEEP BEEP** _

"Carlos?"

"Y-yeah?" 

"Happy Valentine's Day."

_**CLICK** _

Carlos let the phone linger at his ear, listening to the dial tone reemerge from the dark nothingness like there was something left to hear. 

Slowly, he set it back in its place, shaking off the origami of cord length he'd somehow created around his wrist. He took a short, choppy breath, trying to swallow whatever emotion he decided he didn't understand and certainly didn't want to deal with that night. 

Snatching the post-it-note from the island, Carlos slapped it on his fridge like a souvenir.

He decided to order Chinese for dinner.


End file.
